Sure enough, I pondered all week without coming to much conclusion. It's currently close to midnight on Wednesday as I start this. God loves to give me blog ideas at this time of night, and that's how I know they are His - nothing productive for me happens after about 9:30 p.m.
Looking at my timehop and Facebook memories around this time of year is very strange for me. Right after Brenna died, I realized that my memory between the last party on the night of my high school graduation (Sunday, May 20 around midnight) and the first phone call I got that Brenna was missing (Friday, May 25, around 2 p.m) is completely wiped. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And the things between 2 and 11 p.m. are in a very strange order and in an uncomfortably vivid detail. Now, six years later, that seems very normal - why would I remember mundane and unimportant days working at a daycare six years ago? Of course I would remember such an awful day in great detail. But On Sunday the 27th of 2012, it seemed very strange to have that much memory just gone. Looking at my Facebook and Timehop memories is a very strange experience because for a solid week, I remember none of it, even now. I sat down with my neuro professor at Creighton and talked with her about this - sometimes that is a protective instinct of your brain to block things out, it seems like my brain just blocked the wrong stuff.
What I do remember, however, is the events that took place on the evening of the 25th (so well, they're probably engrained in my brain forever) and that Memorial weekend - a Memorial weekend that no one in my friend group will probably ever view the same way. This year is especially strange because, for the first time, the days of the week align with the 2012 calendar. All the events will pop up on the memories and on timehop on the same day that they actually happened.
Now that it has been six years, and even some before this, I have come to a closure, for the most part, with the events associated with that weekend (I think I say this every year, but it's a good feeling, and I have to remind myself of that sometimes. We've come a LONG WAY.)- the panicked phone calls, looking for my friend in shrubbery and woods and knowing whatever I found wasn't going to be good, and watching so many people I loved go through that much pain. I have made peace with the details and watched my friends become engineers, teachers, and doctors, study abroad, get married, have kids, and so many other things they dreamed of doing. I know that Brenna watches out for us and she's unbelievably proud of what we've become. Those details no longer matter - it's almost like watching my friends become so successful with college, careers, and families has made up for all the hurt in that day, and it's made them twice as good at whatever they set out to do.
The number one thing that has never faded from my mind has been the support. Starting with my family, stretching to the far corners of my community. I didn't grow up in a small town, but the Seaman community kind of feels like one. Since Brenna, my high school has probably had (I'm not counting, just estimating) around 10 student deaths. Every time it happens I flash back to the day during my junior year that I went to school after three girls in my class had been in a serious accident the night before, and one of them died. The school was eerily quiet all day and all we did was watch movies and color. I watch time and time again as my high school handles these situations with grace and love and makes going to school after a tragedy even safer and more comfortable than before. There seems to be an unspoken bond in our community - kids who deal with the death of their friends now know that those of us who graduated six or seven years ago are all too familiar - we may not ever meet, but we just seem to know.
The night that Brenna died, I remember support. I remember people bringing cases of water and food for those who had spent hours searching. I remember my school counselors coming on a Friday night to stand in a field and love on hundreds of broken kids. I remember someone opening a church (that most of us didn't make it into) for us to have a place to just be. The weekend that Brenna died, I remember support. My parents will never know how much it meant to me that they opened our home for two solid days to anyone and everyone who wanted to be there. I grew up in a house very close to the high school, so it was easy for people to be there. Hundreds of people flowed in and out of the house throughout that Memorial weekend. A lot of them were people I didn't even know. We rotated from working on a scrapbook about Brenna, to laughing and crying at our memories. We would gather in the living room when the news came on, breath sucked in waiting to learn anything new, and scared of whatever it was. My parents made sure the house had a ton of pizza and snacks, and asked us regularly if we would please eat and drink water. Despite the heartbreak, one of my fondest memories of my friends is that weekend and how we supported each other. I remember almost 1400 people attending her funeral, the line for her visitation lasting almost five hours after it ended, a balloon release at my high school, staff members allowing us time to sit in the auditorium and talk and laugh together, and lots and lots of hugs. I remember the Westboro Baptist Church protesting her funeral. I will always brag about that. I have a friend who lived a life so incredible by the age of 18 that the Westboro Baptist Church protested her funeral. I remember the Patriot Guard showing up to support us. I remember feeling somehow so empty and so loved at the same time. The summer that Brenna died, I remember support. I was working at a daycare that I had fallen in love with at 14 and was not ready to leave. My coworkers spent my first six weeks back from Brenna's funeral handing me baby after baby and knowing that snuggles were what I really needed. They offered a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on as they helped me sift through so much adult information as a seventeen year old. My parents supported what had to be the most angry 17 year old that summer they ever thought could live under their roof. In the last six years, the support has never faded.
Right after Brenna died, people often asked me how I could possibly live the rest of my life knowing that my friend was killed intentionally by another human being, and have no idea why this person wanted to do that to her. I used to tell people that I always pray that someday I won't wonder why he did it, I'll wonder why He did it. I finally feel at peace with that. I don't even necessarily wonder why God allowed it to happen anymore - I kind of just count my blessings that have come from the situation and take that as my answer. Even six years later, He doesn't seem to be done working with it yet.
Although I know that Brenna looks down at those of us 'doing our thing' now - I know that the one thing she would be brokenhearted about is the violence in this world. I'm not sure if her death just opened me up to it all as an adult, or if things really are getting worse, but I don't think I ever was made aware of a school shooting until I graduated high school, and they seem to keep multiplying. She wanted to be a kindergarten teacher, and I know it would crush her to know how many kids are put in danger just by going to school. Just last week, ten students were killed at a high school in Texas because of one person. It took years for me to mend losing one friend to an intentional act - I can't fathom ten.
While this world seems to be becoming more violent, more sad, and more broken, I've found that the bonds that were created on that warm May evening are what keeps me grounded. I can thank my friends for teaching me about supporting each other in tough times. I can't control what happens in the larger world, but in the small community around me, I can at least take some part in it - knowing how much a hug, kind words, a shoulder to cry on, good food, or a sonic drink on my roughest day made things just a little bit easier. I'm never going to know the reasons why anyone would want to do something like kill another human being - no one will. But there is never a wrong time for kindness.
I wrote in a previous blog about letting go of the promises you make to yourself after someone dies. You know, the ones about never replacing them, keeping the superficial items of theirs, or similar things. Although we never said it, I think my friend group has an unspoken promise to look out for each other. The death of someone you love at such a young age makes each reunion a little bit sweeter. My friends are of different religions, political beliefs, career paths, and a variety of other things- but we have a blast getting together for a wedding or a night of cards and drinks on Christmas break.
I'm writing this blog from my new favorite spot in this tiny town in Louisiana - a coffee shop that sits right on Lake Ponchartrain. I'm enjoying coffee with whipped cream in Brenna's honor and I took a stroll by the lake earlier. I've got treatment plans to write, sessions to plan, and documents to write up. I've got diagnoses to learn, theories to study, and a lot of kids waiting to challenge me. But I'm thinking about how far we've come. My friends from high school and I don't talk much anymore, but I know they're doing incredible things, changing the world in their own ways, with a sturdy foundation of strength built from this very weekend six years ago. This morning I was on a home visit for my rotation working with a little girl and I realized I was able to get her hip braces on (despite her stubbornness about them being on) and get her up, walking, and fed, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. I am finally, finally doing what I've always wanted to do. But it comes with a little bittersweet today, because although I am, someone else I love is not.
These last two weeks have been a big transition for me that helped inspire some of the thoughts in this blog. I moved to Louisiana two weeks ago, and although it's only for 12 weeks, it's an adjustment. I've never lived alone or this far away from home, and I've never moved to a brand new city without knowing anyone. Each transition in life seems to come with a slight relapse of grief, and I've been feeling it this week. Nothing major - but instead of appreciating her song on the radio, the daisy I walk by, or laughing at the whiffle ball that suddenly seems to have jumped off the shelf at the therapy clinic, it takes me a minute to get through it. It's never a big deal, but it is noticeable.
My hope is that even if we forget the superficial promises and feelings we had that weekend six years ago, we'll never forget the most important ones. My friend Tyler said in an interview the day after she died that they had both wanted to be teachers, (and teach in classrooms next to each other) and now he would have to do twice as good of a job because she wouldn't be around to do it. I hope the members of my community who were present on that awful, awful day are still promising to do big things in the world. Many people let go of their high school by the time they are six years out and I think most of us have. I don't visit, I don't think about it much, I just keep up with my favorite teachers on Facebook. But there's always going to be a part of me who is thankful that the Seaman community is bound together by tragic circumstances that hold together like glue. More than that, we're empowered with the knowledge and desire of wanting to live out the wishes and dreams of our classmates who will never have the chance. Every year, this day makes me proud to be where I'm from. We may not be able to change a lot, but we will ensure the pain we went through never goes to waste.
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